Vol. 22, No. 5,514 - The American Reporter - September 7, 2016



by Cindy Hasz
American Reporter Correspondent
San Diego, Calif.
May 13, 2001
The American Reporter Wishes
Every Mom A

Happy Mother's Day!

Cindy Hasz: JONATHAN'S STORY

Back to home page

Printable version of this story

Blood clots like berries stuck in your hair.

Emergence. You screamed and cried. You breathed and found my breast= . The San Fransisco Peaks were darkened with late summer monsoons and as= my milk began to flow, the skies themselves let down amidst peals of thund= er and cracks of lightning. Hopi Kachinas danced on Three Mesas and we two snuggled in bed under the covers in the pines at 7,000 ft., as the rain pou= nded the world. We were suckling and blissful.

The years between that day and this have flown as everyone said the= y would. You have grown into a fine young man. Tall as one of those Norther= n Arizona pine trees. I am now an older woman. Not yet bent but pine cones drooping. You are golden while I am graying. You are Spring and I am Autumn= . We clash as often as those summer storms of the high desert. We wrestl= e and tumble like cumulus clouds and thunderheads. We race like mustangs an= d fight like Bighorns. More and more you hold your own whichdelights me.

You are now only one year away from the time I left my own mother f= or the rainforests of Costa Rica. Like my mother was then, I will be alone and nearly 50. I think often now of how hard her years between 50 and 60 mu= st have been and marvel at how little I was aware of her. How I had no capa= city to understand her life. Yet she thought of me constantly. I realize wi= th some foreboding that it will be the same for us. It will be your time to= fly and mine to watch and pray and prepare for you and my grandchildren wi= thin you to return to earth as your own nesting years begin.

Just as I love to tell our birth story I also love to hear my Mothe= r tell birth stories of my brother and I. They are primal and in certain wa= ys silly. Archetypal. Like simple hieroglyphics on the wall of a life. Snap= shots of a far way time and place that are always present tense.

For brother it is the azaleas. She'll say to us in a special sing-s= ong voice reserved for the family historian, "The day Jeff was born the Aza= leas were blooming." And for me it's always, "The first time I saw you, you= looked around the room like you'd always been here."

Such birth stories are oral tradition equally as nutritious and for= mative as breast feeding itself. Embarrassingly intimate, entirely predicta= ble, embelllished with idiosycratic cadences and facial dramatics.

Mayb= e all storytelling could be considered breast-feeding for the soul.

Mothers are natural storytellers. Their stories are containers for life just as they themselves are containers of life. Mothers are weavers of word= s and worlds. It is one of the high priestly duties of motherhood, this tel= ling of stories. No less than the shaping of family mythology, they deeply influence the trajectory of young lives.

We won't be seeing Grandma tomorrow, you and I. Her storytelling wi= ll go on without us. Only my brother and his son will hear about the azalea= s for the billionth time and I will be pensive and peaceful surveying the g= ardens in the afternoon sun four hours to the south ofwhere they are.

You no doubt will be on the greens or biking with friends and all b= ut oblivious to the magnitude of my love for you. That is as it must be. Ma= ny years from now, when you watch your own make their thousand departures f= rom the nest you've lined with the fibers of your own ragged soul, you'll t= hink of me and see more clearly through the lens of the years than you can how it is that a love that holds close must also let go.

When that time comes, think of me and tell them a story.

Copyright 2016 Joe Shea The American Reporter. All Rights Reserved.

Site Meter